


the aesthetics of murder

by PersephonesReign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Will, Dark Will, Established Relationship, Implied Cannibalism, Implied Sexual Gratification from Violent Acts, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Post-Canon, Rough Sex, Will Knows, romanticized violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 04:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20039854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephonesReign/pseuds/PersephonesReign
Summary: There is a beauty in violence. Will Graham knows this truth better than anyone.He has seen the colorful details, the lovely bright reds of arterial spatter, the darks of venous splashes. The deep purples of bruising and lividity pooling beneath the skin. The stark white of splintered bone and broken teeth.Will thinks that Hannibal is beautiful in his violence, too. Loves him for it, even.





	the aesthetics of murder

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, so this is my first foray into the Hannibal fandom, and I had no idea I was capable of writing something like this. A quick note, I do NOT condone any of the ideas or behavior written about in this fic, it is just a work of fiction. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

There is a beauty in violence. Will Graham knows this truth better than anyone. He has witnessed the artistry in brutal force, in the slash of a knife swung like the stroke of an exacting painter’s brush, in the spray of hot lifeblood across the wall, dripping like paint down canvas. He has seen the elegance in the movement of killers, like conductors over symphonies of anguished cries, like ballerinas whirling in a savage dance. He has observed the romance in the sanguineous mess created in the throes of death, seen the enchanting way the light drains from a person’s eyes as they bleed out, how their bodies eventually cease to struggle and thrash before finally going slack. Peaceful-looking, as they are consigned to oblivion. He has let his gaze linger on the colorful details, the lovely bright reds of arterial spatter, the darks of venous splashes. The deep purples of bruising and lividity pooling beneath the skin. The stark white of splintered bone and broken teeth, the fleshy pink of tongues hanging between unmoving, grey tinged lips. Glassy eyes of white and black, chestnut or hazel, sea blue or emerald green, staring up at him, unseeing. He has helped to create picturesque tableaus forged out of this lively palette of death and rot and decay. Corpses elevated beyond inanimate masses of flesh and marrow and viscera, granted new purpose, magnificent in their grotesqueness. Will thanks his eidetic memory for allowing him to preserve this iconography, that he can revisit the displays in his mind in vivid technicolor. He allows himself now to relish in the veracities and duplicities of killing and death. To lose himself in the beauty of these violent acts and their aftermath. It makes him feel alive, every nerve in his body singing with raw, unfettered power.

Will thinks that Hannibal is beautiful, too, in his dichotomy. Thinks he is at his most striking in the moments when the mask of humanity falls away to reveal the monster underneath. He knows that Hannibal loves him with all the frenzied passion and fiery vengeance, with all the calculated viciousness and icy wrath tangled up inside him. Will loves Hannibal, too, for his nature and in spite of it. He loves him _in spite_. Theirs is not a love built on trust and honesty and tenderness. It is built on manipulation and deceit and brutality. Will finds that he can no longer distinguish between displays of love and of violence: with Hannibal, they are often one and the same. It doesn't matter. He has always been comfortable with cognitive dissonance.

Before Will started to join him on his hunts, Hannibal was habitually a clean killer. Efficient and antiseptic. But Will does not want clean. He wants to feel the hot spray of blood across his face, to feel it drip down his overheated skin, mingling with cold sweat. He wants to taste the coppery tang of it on his tongue, to feel the chewy snap of sinew between his teeth. He wants to dig his fingers into tender places, to create raw and gaping wounds, to feel the slippery slide of smooth organ tissue between his fingers. He wants to tear out the hidden inner things and expose them for all to see. He wants to lose himself in the full-bodied sensory experience of it. Hannibal does not always agree to cater to Will’s desires, does not always indulge his vicious whims. Tonight, he does.

Tonight’s target is nothing special. Another in a long string of useless hunks of meat waiting to be transformed by their hands. Will had spotted him on the sidewalk outside a quaint cafe in Monaco, where they have been spending the fall months. He was a tourist, sounded to be of American origin. Hard to miss, given that he was shouting obscenities at the young woman who was with him. Will watched out of the corner of his eye as the man roughly snatched the woman by the wrist, dragging her into a nearby alley, presumably to continue their argument. He had raised an eyebrow at Hannibal from across the table, who smirked in return over his glass of wine. The hunt was on.

The man was easy enough to follow into a dark club, simple enough to entice to a remote location with the promised sale of some quality cocaine. The young woman was not with him.

Hannibal watches as Will strikes the first blow across the back of the man’s skull with a copper pipe he’d found lying on the floor of the abandoning building. Will always carries his knife with him but enjoys the thrill of improvising with whatever is on hand. He pivots with the grace of a trained matador and strikes the pipe across the man’s sternum with all his strength. The crack of ribs echoes. The man hunches over, breath forced from his lungs, and Will bends down to cup his cheeks like a lover. With alarming tenderness, he brings the man’s face to his and from the outside, it looks as though Will captures his lips in a kiss. The man shrieks as Will takes his bottom lip in his mouth and bites down hard enough that his teeth click together. He throws his head back, and there is a sickly tearing sound as a chunk of the man’s lower lip rips free. Will chews once and then spits the hunk of flesh out onto the floor.

The man flails, striking Will in the face, breaking him from his revelry. He tries to run for the door, but Hannibal springs into action. Their prey cannot move quickly in his wounded state and he is on him in an instant. Hannibal grips his left bicep in one hand and grabs his right wrist with the other. Bending his right arm behind his back, Hannibal wrenches it upward with a ruthless twist, and the man gives a breathless cry as his shoulder pops from the socket. Hannibal holds him there, squirming feebly, as Will stalks across the room, slowly drawing his folded knife from his pocket and snapping it open with a dramatic flourish. He drives the knife into the man’s gut, deep enough to slice into the fat and muscle but not enough to puncture any organs (a lesson he has learned from his lover, in more ways than one). Will drags the knife diagonally across the man’s stomach before yanking it free. He holds the knife out to Hannibal, and their fingers brush as he takes it from him. Hannibal immediately presses the blade against the man’s throat, applying only the barest pressure. Will watches for a moment as the waterfall of blood starts to flow from the gash he has created and then digs both hands into the wound. He wriggles his fingers before he clenches them into fists and _pulls_. Handfuls of intestines come free and Will brings them against his chest, cradling them in his hands like a bride holds a wedding bouquet. He closes his eyes for a moment and soaks in the feeling before releasing the viscera. They fall to the dirty floor with a wet splat. Will locks eyes with Hannibal and gasps at the scorching heat he sees in his gaze. He gives an almost imperceptible nod and Hannibal draws the knife across the still breathing man’s throat. Will squeezes his eyes shut again. Hot, bright blood sprays across Will’s face, dripping down his neck and soaking into his already ruined shirt. He licks his lips. He hears the dull thud of the man’s limp body hitting the ground.

When he looks at Hannibal again he is almost startled to see that lustful expression tinged with love and longing. Will steps over the corpse and cradles Hannibal’s face in his hands. He draws one bloody fingertip across Hannibal’s sharp cheekbone and down to his lips, spreading the red mess. Hannibal takes his finger between his teeth and bites down before sucking gently.

“Fuck, Hannibal,” Will gasps. He yanks his hand away and throws himself into Hannibal’s embrace. Their lips meet, and Will wastes no time, plunging his tongue inside. He runs it along Hannibal’s teeth, presses it against the sharp point of one of his canines.

“I want you, need you. _Now_,” he demands against Hannibal’s mouth.

Without a word, Hannibal fists both hands into Will’s shirt and rips, buttons scattering. He shoves Will’s jacket and the remains of his shirt off his shoulders, allowing the fabric to bunch around Will’s elbows, binding his arms behind his back. Hannibal spins Will around and pulls him flush against him, grinding his erection against Will’s ass. Moaning breathlessly, Will pushes back. Suddenly, he is shoved to the ground, gasping as his knees hitting the concrete hard enough to bruise. He feels the heat from Hannibal’s body as the other man leans over him and pushes his pants and boxers down to expose his ass. He hears the sound the zipper on Hannibal’s trousers makes as it is hastily pulled down. Hannibal reaches into the pocket of Will’s jacket, withdrawing the small tube of lubricant that Will has taken to keeping there for times like these. He squeezes a liberal amount onto his hand, warming it between his fingers, mixing it with the blood there. He braces his other hand between Will’s shoulder blades and shoves him flat. Will’s cheek is pressed against the floor, his head turned toward the mutilated corpse lying only an arm’s length away.

Hannibal coats himself with the sticky-slick mixture, and lines up with Will’s entrance, burying himself completely in one brutal thrust. Will _screams_, tossing his head back and arching his spine. Hannibal untangles Will’s shirt and jacket, allowing Will to pull his arms free, and tosses the bunched fabric aside. He digs his nails into the soft flesh of Will’s hips, leaving reddened half-moons behind. He forces Will up onto his hands and knees and drives forward again and again. The motion causes Will to skid forward, and he feels the thin skin on his knees burn, rubbed raw against the fabric of his pants and the unforgiving floor. His hands scramble for purchase and he scrapes his nails across the concrete, splitting a few in his haste, lodging fine bits of rock and dust against sensitive nail beds. Will moans at the heady mix of pain and pleasure, and rocks back against the ruthless intrusion, meeting each thrust. Hannibal runs a hand through Will’s curls and twists his long fingers into silky hair before yanking his head back. Will pushes himself up, resting his weight on Hannibal’s thighs, as Hannibal sits back onto his heels. Hannibal rakes his nails down Will’s chest, beads of blood pooling in his wake, and grips Will’s erection in his fist. He strokes him roughly with each pistoning motion of his hips. Will tries to grind himself down against Hannibal’s cock, seeking to take him deeper into his body.

“My darling Will,” Hannibal whispers in his ear. “Look at what you’ve done. Do you delight in the destruction you’ve wrought? _Does it please you_?” He nips at Will’s earlobe.

“_Yes_,” Will hisses.

His orgasm rips through him and he comes with Hannibal’s name on his lips. Hannibal sinks his sharp teeth into the meat of Will’s shoulder, breaking skin, and sucks hard, blossoming a pretty bruise. He fucks Will through his orgasm before shoving him off his lap and raising to his feet. Will’s elbows strike the ground hard as he fails to catch himself. Hannibal grabs Will by the hair, forcing him to turn around to face him. Will cries out in pain, body shaking. Hannibal takes himself in hand and gives a few quick strokes. He groans softly, painting Will’s face with his release. Will opens his mouth, chasing a taste, enjoying the way the salty, bitter tang mingles with the metallic taste of blood already on his tongue.

Hannibal kneels down in front of Will and delicately runs his fingers across his cheeks, down his chin, and over his lips, blending his cum with someone else’s blood. Both are still Hannibal’s marks all the same. Will presses forward in a tender kiss, gently coaxing Hannibal’s mouth open with his tongue, sharing the flavor. The rush of the kill and the fervor of their desire has been replaced by Will’s all-consuming love for the man before him.

They will need to move soon, to dispose of the body and cleanse the scene of evidence. Tonight, they will not repurpose the remains, will not leave behind a ghastly masterpiece. Will is satisfied enough. Next time, he might not be. For now, though, Will is content to kneel on the hard ground, sticky with an unseemly mix of drying bodily fluids, his entire body wrecked and sore, basking in the overwhelming feeling of love and belonging that washes over him. He meets Hannibal’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

A laugh escapes Hannibal, soft and dark. He licks a wet stripe up Will’s cheek.

“Anything for you, my love.”

* * *


End file.
